6. Ghost #2
He's in the wings, watching the stage crew break down, phone in his hand like he's been waiting for news. When he sees me coming, his whole body tenses.
"Well?"
"It's done. He's gone."
Nate lets out a breath. His eyes close for a second, and when they open again, something in his expression has shifted. Relief, but more than that. He looks at me the way he used to when we were kids — like I'm the one person in the world he can count on.
"How gone?"
"Gone enough. Lock's making sure he understands the terms."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then I'll have another conversation with him."
Nate nods slowly. He doesn't ask for details. He knows better. "Thank you. For all of this."
"You asked. I came. That's how it works."
He's quiet for a moment. Then he steps forward and pulls me into a hug — brief, hard, the kind we don't do often. When he pulls back, he claps me once on the shoulder. Then the corner of his mouth twitches.
"So. You and India."
"Don't."
"I'm just saying — I asked you to protect her. Didn't expect you to be quite so thorough."
"Nate."
He holds up his hands, but he's grinning now. "She's in her dressing room. Go tell her."
India's alone when I walk in.
Still in her stage outfit, makeup smeared from sweat. The show went well — I could hear the crowd from the corridor, their screams and cheers carrying through the walls. She gave them everything she had.
She looks up when I enter. "What happened? You weren't side stage for the last few songs."
"Harris was here."
Her face goes pale. "He was— did he—"
"He's gone. He won't bother you again."
She stares at me for a long moment, processing. Then: "What did you do?"
"What I had to."
She doesn't push. Doesn't ask for details. Just nods, like that's enough. Like she trusts me to handle the ugly parts so she doesn't have to look at them.
That trust hits me harder than anything Harris said.
"Ghost," she says softly. "Thank you."
I brush a strand of hair from her face. "You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I want to." She pauses. "You saved me."
"No." I shake my head. "You trusted the right people. You let us help. All I did was make sure he couldn't hurt you anymore."
She's quiet for a moment. Then she reaches up and takes my face in her hands, pulling me down until we're eye to eye.
"I love you," she says.
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. Not because they're unexpected — I think part of me has known since the night she first slept in my bed — but because hearing them out loud makes it real.
"India—"
"You don't have to say it back. I know you're not... that's not how you work. But I needed you to know." She smiles, soft and certain. "You're it for me. Whatever happens, wherever my career takes me, you're it."
I should say something. Something meaningful, something that matches the weight of what she just gave me.
But I'm not good with words. Never have been.
So I kiss her instead. Deep and slow and full of everything I can't say. I pour it all into the way I hold her, the way I breathe her in, the way I pull her closer like I'm trying to fuse us together.
When I finally pull back, she's smiling.
"Was that your way of saying it back?"
"Yeah."
She laughs. "Good enough for me."
We stay like that for a long moment, close enough to breathe each other in. The chaos of the show still echoes outside — crew breaking down, voices calling, the machinery of her career grinding on.
But in here, it's just us.
And that's all I need.
EPILOGUE
Three Months Later
The studio is one of those sleek Phoenix buildings — all glass and steel and money. The kind of place where people wear headsets and carry tablets and look at you like you're lost if you're not dressed right.
I'm not dressed right.
I lean against my bike in the parking lot, arms crossed, watching the front entrance.
It's after nine. She's been in there since early morning, laying down tracks for the new album.
I don't understand half of what she tells me about the process — producers, mixing, mastering, things that need to be redone because someone didn't like the energy.
But I understand that she loves it. That the exhaustion she carries out of these sessions is the good kind.
The door opens and she steps out.
She's in jeans and a t-shirt, hair pulled back, no makeup. She looks tired. She looks beautiful. She's talking to someone behind her — a guy in an expensive jacket, probably a label exec — nodding at whatever he's saying. Professional. Polished. India Blair, pop star.
Then she sees me.
The change is immediate. Her whole face shifts — the professional mask dropping, something real sliding into place. She says something to the suit, a quick goodbye, and then she's walking toward me.
"Hey," she says when she reaches me.
"Hey."
"You've been waiting long?"
"Nope."
She smiles. That smile — the one that's just for me, the one that has nothing to do with cameras or crowds or performance. I've seen it a hundred times now and it still hits me the same way.
"Liar," she says. "You've been out here at least an hour. I saw your text."
"Didn't have anything better to do."
"Mmhm." She steps closer, her hands finding my chest, smoothing over the leather of my cut. "How was your day?"
"Quiet. Yours?"
"Long. The producer wanted to redo the bridge seventeen times. I think we finally got it on take twenty-three." She sighs, leaning into me. "I'm tired."
"Then let's go home."
She nods against my chest, and I let myself hold her for another moment before we move.
Six months ago, she was a job. Nate's client, a pop star with a stalker problem, someone I needed to keep alive. Now we have a place together. A life.
She still tours. Still records. Still disappears into this world of studios, press junkets, and sold-out arenas. But she always comes back.
And I'm always here when she does.
I hand her the helmet and she takes it, fingers brushing mine. She doesn't put it on yet. Just looks at me for a moment, something soft in her expression.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just... this. You, waiting for me. I like it."
"Get used to it."
"I am." She rises up on her toes and kisses me — quick, warm, easy. "Take me home, Ghost."
I swing onto the bike and she climbs on behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist, her body pressing against my back. She fits there. Like she was always supposed to be there.
I kick the engine to life and pull out of the lot, leaving the glass building and the industry bullshit behind. The highway opens up in front of us — desert stretching out on either side, the sun starting to sink toward the horizon.
An hour to Tucson. An hour of her holding onto me, the wind drowning out everything else.
She's a pop star. I'm a biker. It shouldn't work.
But it does.
And that's all that matters.